


Mary, Not Contrary

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, BAMF!Mary, Gen, He also wears makeup, John Watson IS Mary Morstan, Sherlock can dance, epic best friends, gendermorph, literal genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 01:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: Every so many months John's gender switches and he spends a couple weeks as a woman. While John's primary gender is male he's at peace with both sides of himself. John calls his girl self 'Mary Morstan' to avoid the attention of similar names. One of these cycles, John is distracted by a case and unable to 'go on vacation' or 'go to a medical conference' in time. Girl!John runs to avoid being kidnapped and studied by the government. Disappearing randomly on a case is apparently the worst way to try and hide from Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

John-but-not-John sighed at the pounding on the door of her hostel room. She'd recognise that demanding clatter anywhere. The most surprising part was not that Sherlock had tracked her down, but that he was actually knocking.

"Come in," she said, pleased her voice wasn't squeaking.

The door burst open and Sherlock stood there, hand on the door handle, staring at the occupant of the bed with an uncomfortably piercing expression. John-but-not-John waited in her track pants and bra, watching those bright grey eyes taking inventory.

_Same age as John, same height, same body type, but softer, more curved. Hair softer, slightly curly. Nose more slender, chin and cheeks, skin delicate. Blue eyes the same, but for the longer lashes. Sister? No. I've seen pictures of Harry._

_She looks at me like John does. She's waiting for something. She is very calm. Hands rock steady. Centred, exactly like John, but..._

_Burn on the thumb from the stove, exactly where John burned himself last night. Shoulders in the same posture, not quite balanced because of... the bullet scar, identical._

_**Identical?** _

"It might be easier," said the woman, "If you call me Mary."

"That's the name in the register."

"Yes. Well. I have ID in both my names..."

"And how..."

"I've been doing this all my life, Sherlock. I'm prepared. And I'm not stupid."

"And this is why you disappear every few months?"

Mary/John's mouth quirked in what may have been humour, or distress. "It's easier than explaining. I hate the explaining part. It's..." Mary's eyes flashed, "...Boring."

Sherlock nodded once, sharply. Spotting Mary's shirt on the back of a chair, he threw it at the woman on the bed.

"Fine," he said, "No explaining. But we're on a case, and I need you."

Mary pulled on the blouse and began to button it. "You could take the skull," she suggested.

"Nonsense," said Sherlock, finding a skirt to throw after the shirt, "The skull has no medical knowledge and is not very handy in a fight. I assume you are?"

"Oh yes. My special ops training was in both genders. It's a bit easier as Mary. No-one expects me to deliver a literal bollocking."

Sherlock grinned appreciatively. "Excellent. Ready?"

Mary stood, slipping her feet into a pair of sneakers. "And how are you planning to explain..." She swept a hand down her body.

Sherlock waved his hand in the air and made a noise like 'Pfffft'. "It's not up to us to explain anything. If they don't understand, it's their problem. Come along J... Mary. We have criminals to catch. The game is ON!"

Laughing, a very melodious, feminine laugh, Mary grabbed her satchel, her gun and some lipstick to apply in the cab, and followed Sherlock into the chase.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson IS Mary Morstan; Sherlock doesn't freak out, which Mary finds a bit confusing; Sherlock refrains from being unnecessarily chivalrous.

Mary finished applying make-up in the moving cab with expertise borne of practice. She stole glances at Sherlock, disconcerted by the fact that he wasn’t staring. It was the response she’d always dreamed of getting, and now she was utterly thrown that someone was neither gawping, asking inane, deeply personal or downright offensive questions or, worse, contemplating violence. In fact, Sherlock’s non-response was getting unsettling.

“Why aren’t you freaking out?” Mary demanded.

“I thought you said that explanations were boring.”

“Mine are, yes. I give them, then it’s billions of very stupid questions which are all just covering up the fact that everyone is freaking out. You are not freaking out. Why?”

Sherlock shrugged. “One of my early cases. Non-identical twins, a brother and a sister. The sister was seen by a school friend in window of a seedy warehouse by the Thames where the brother rehearsed with a band. The sister screamed on sighting her friend and disappeared. Her brother was found with his sister’s clothes, but no sister. The brother, Alex, was accused of murder, although his sister’s body hadn’t been found. Alex’s bandmate appealed to me for help. I went to the parents’ house and noticed there were photos of Alison and of Alex, but never together. First hypothesis: there was only one child who cross-dressed. But, the missing Alison was definitely a woman; her brother Alex, definitely male. An examination of their shared room – very strange for adult children – upheld the theory of one person, one personality, two gender expressions. And you know my methods. Once the impossible has been eliminated…”

“People usually eliminate this as possible…”

“People are idiots,” said Sherlock, “It fit the facts. I consulted a geneticist and a molecular biologist. I confronted the parents with their offspring’s gendermorphism. They confessed it, terrified I was going to report it to Men in Black of some kind. As if I would tell Mycroft anything. While awaiting bail, the cycle – which had started prematurely – ended, and Alex was Alison again, incarcerated in a men’s prison.”

Mary blanched. Sherlock grinned slyly, “I fabricated a medical emergency for Alex and got Alison out within two hours, before her secret could be discovered. Then she went to the police station as herself, and the charges against Alex were dropped.” Sherlock cast another sideways glance at Mary. “So you see, your condition is rare, but not unique.”

Mary blinked. “I’d heard there were others,” she said, “But I’ve never met anyone else.” She frowned. “And… no other questions?”

“I don’t need to ask any, as you well know. For example, the fact that I am one of the very few people you know who has encountered gendermorphism before, and may have recognised the symptoms, makes it surprising that you have successfully kept this a secret from me – **_me_** – for over a year. Clearly, guarding your secret is not merely a matter of feeling uncomfortable or awkward. In fact, you are anything but awkward in your female form. No. The caution you exercise is a matter of military precision. You have feared for your life, before. Ensuring nobody knows that you can change, or will recognise that Mary and John are the same person, is paramount.”

“But you did, anyway.”

“Yes. But most people won’t. People, as I keep telling you, are idiots. If anyone who knows you as one gender sees you as the other, they will assume you are related, but not the same person. You certainly do not look like John Watson in drag.”

Mary knew perfectly well that she didn’t. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she didn’t just look like a bloke in a dress, because she wasn’t a bloke in a dress. As a woman, her features were a little pixie-like. When she was younger, she was considered cute, in a tomboyish, Zoe Wanamaker-ish way.

“Your clothes are an excellent fit and selected to flatter and emphasise your figure,” continued Sherlock, “Your make-up is likewise expertly applied. The result is that you look like a member of the Watson family, but not obviously like your male self. Your body language has changed, your voice is differently modulated. You walk differently too, I presume because your pelvis has also changed shape, though I suspect that you emphasise your hips when you move…”

“Sherlock, were you watching my arse when I walked to the car?”

“I was watching your _walk_ ,” corrected Sherlock, offended, “Your arms move differently too. You have a distinctly feminine sway as Mary that you lack as John.”

The cab drew up at the crime scene, and before another word was spoken, Sherlock had leapt from the car, leaving Mary to pay the fare.

At least, Mary thought with a grimace, she wouldn’t have to deal with Sherlock being all unnecessarily chivalrous with her.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson IS Mary Morstan; Mary goes to a crime scene and nobody recognises her; Anderson flirts with her, which is awkward; Mary is helpful; Sherlock doesn't know everything about perfume; Lestrade is needlessly gentlemanly.

Mary caught up with Sherlock just as DI Lestrade was pointing the way towards the new body. Lestrade gave her a puzzled look as she arrived.

“Where’s John?”

Sherlock turned to Mary. “The body is there, in the alley, behind the bins. Tell me what you see.”

Mary nodded and followed his directions, wondering what had got into her, that she’d allowed Sherlock to drag her off to a crime scene, with so many people who knew her as John. So many detectives. Insane. Suicide. What on earth had happened to a lifetime of caution and planning?

Sherlock Bloody Holmes, that’s what.

Mary sighed and knelt by the body. She tried to ignore the feeling of so many eyes on her. She heard Sherlock say to someone “Doctor Mary Morston. John’s not available. What is wrong with you? Of course I know other people. Yes, who are not police.”

She began with a visual examination, but all she learned from that was that the man had died of asphyxiation.

“Are you related to Dr Watson?” Anderson asked. Mary blinked up at him, “Only, there’s a family resemblance. You’re much prettier, of course.”

Anderson smiled dazzlingly, and Mary suppressed a sigh, not because she thought Anderson was about to make a startling deduction but because, from this angle, she could see he was looking down her blouse. He probably couldn’t help it. Bloke reflex, she figured. It’s not like he lingered inappropriately, his gaze darting back to her face a moment later, but his warm ‘aren’t you lovely’ smile was nothing like the pained expression Anderson reserved for Sherlock and John.

“Stop wasting time with the idiots, Mary,” Sherlock’s voice snapped out, “what do you see?”

Mary completed a swift examination. “Anaphylactic shock, I think,” she said, “It’s… oh. Hang on.” Mary leaned across and low over the body, inhaling. She picked up the limp arm of the victim and sniffed at the wrist. She pressed a finger close to a discoloured spot there, and sniffed again.

“What is it?” asked Anderson, politely and encouragingly, as though trying to make up for Sherlock’s rudeness. “What is it, Mary?

“Dr Morstan,” she corrected, because discouraging Anderson’s reflex flirting was a reflex of its own, “And it’s this.” She splayed her fingers to reveal the oily smudge on her short, painted nail.

Before she could explain, Sherlock darted between them, seizing Mary’s wrist and holding the fingertip to his nose. “That’s… useless, Mary. Why on earth did you wear perfume to a crime scene? It’s interfering with the oil. Two scents clashing, it’s …”

“I wasn’t planning on coming to a crime scene,” Mary interrupted sternly, “And I didn’t tell you to sniff my hand either, you prat. Sniff his hand.”

Sherlock obediently dropped to inhale at the patch on the dead man’s skin.

“Poison,” said Mary.

“What kind?” Sherlock demanded, inhaling deeply, “I can detect fifteen common poisons by scent, but this is just perfume. Strange for a man to be wearing perfume. And oil rather than...”

“No, I mean it’s a perfume called Poison. Well, a lot like it. I imagine it’s a counterfeit. Real Poison doesn’t have that… tinny afterscent.”

Sherlock regarded Mary with an appreciative gleam in his eye. “Your olfactory sense is better developed?”

“Yes. And my sister used to buy it for me. I think it was a statement rather than a gift, mind you…”

But Sherlock was off, coat swirling in his wake. Mary couldn’t help laughing as she rose and followed.

Lestrade stepped up as she hurried to catch up. “Dr Morstan… don’t let him get you into trouble, eh? He doesn’t always think about consequences.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about me,” Mary said with a grin. It must have been a surprisingly wolfish expression, because the DI’s own shifted swiftly from concern to surprise, then he looked speculatively between Mary and Sally Donovan. Mary nodded. “That’s right. I’m of the ‘don’t fuck with me’ sisterhood.”

“Mary!” shouted Sherlock from down the street.

“Gotta run,” said Mary, and took off after him.


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson IS Mary Morstan; someone gets the drop on Sherlock; Mary enjoys being underestimated; Mary delivers the literal bollocking mentioned in part one; Anderson is needlessly chivalrous.

Mary quite enjoyed being underestimated, whatever gender she was. Other people’s assumptions about height, strength, patience, whatever, gave both her selves a secret +10 for all the other skills: marksmanship, hand to hand combat, coolness in a crisis.

Like this one, for example.

Sherlock’s brain had made its lightning connections, leading them to a fake perfumery, and a nasty sideline in murder-by-deadly-allergy. Perfumes and aftershaves laced with disguised allergens could be purchased as gifts for the no-long loved ones in your life. Sherlock thought it was a stupid way to conduct a murder operation, as it wasn’t exactly fool-proof. Certainly not up to Moriarty’s standards, and in fact, none of Moriarty’s doing.

The amateur murder syndicate didn’t much care how effective it was, as long as they were paid in advance. It’s not like the folks who hired them could report them to Consumer Affairs if it didn’t work out. Most weren’t in a position to demand a refund, either.

Cracking this had solved three murders that no-one knew had been murders from the last six months, providing either of them lived long enough to tell Scotland Yard. It was miracle enough that Mary had convinced Sherlock to text Lestrade with their rough location. She’d have done it herself, except she didn’t want to explain how she was doing that with John’s phone.

Mary hoped that Lestrade wasn’t too far behind, because Sherlock was clearly handicapped by the notion that he was always smarter than other people. Maybe he was, but he was not always more cunning than other people. He was not, for example, more cunning than the brutal bastard who had just punched Sherlock in the side of the head, having lured the both of them into this alley lined with garage lock-ups.

He’d dropped out of, well, not nowhere, but a gap between two lock-ups, leading with a fist to Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock had caught the movement in time enough to pull up, which only meant the enormous fist caught him in the jaw and hurtled him head-first into a wall on the other side of the alley. He slumped, momentarily stunned, trying to bring his vision back into focus.

And in the meantime, this brute was advancing on Mary, who hadn’t had time yet to retrieve her gun from the damned satchel.

The brute grinned unpleasantly, and Mary’s lips pursed. She recognised that look. She’d seen it on men who thought that women weren’t especially dangerous, and should always be put in their place.

“I’m gonna do you, bitch,” the brute told her, “Then I’m gonna do your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” replied Mary calmly. Being underestimated did not mean simpering. Mostly, it meant standing there calmly, assessing the opportunities, letting people think you were too weak or slow or stupid to defend yourself.

People, as Sherlock never got tired of saying, were idiots.

“He’s a twat, then. You’re a tasty bit of tail.” He grabbed at Mary’s right breast, which he squeezed savagely, for about 10 seconds before he let go with a screech. This was because Mary had, in a spirited like-for-like strategy, grabbed him by the genitals, dug in her nails and twisted like she was trying unscrew the lid of a new jar of pickles.

The brute screeched and swung at her. Mary, not letting go, dodged an economically short distance, twisted again, and drove the heel of her other palm upward in a sharp, powerful jab to the pulse point of his throat, connecting with the area above the carotid artery and a bunch of wonderfully receptive nerve endings.

The attacker dropped like a whimpering stone. Mary stood over him a moment, kicked him in the thigh to be certain he was out of action, and finally retrieved her gun. By the time the creep had opened his watering eyes again, he could see it aimed squarely in the middle of his forehead. Behind the muzzle, he could see a very cool pair of blue eyes, daring him to try it on.

“Sherlock?” Mary said, not taking her eyes off the thug on the ground, “Are you all right?”

Sherlock was standing, but swaying a little, holding himself up with a death grip on a nearby roller-door.

“Better than he is,” Sherlock managed with a huff that sounded like he might be trying to laugh.

With a grand sense of timing, Lestrade and his team arrived. Mary quickly flipped the safety onto her gun, which wasn't registered in her name either, and slipped it back into her satchel. It wasn’t needed any more, anyway, because Donovan – giving Mary a look of impressed congratulations – had her gun on the perp now.

Anderson sadly persisted in living down to Sherlock’s estimation of his skills of observation. “Are you okay, Ma…? Dr Morstan? Did he hurt you?”

That wheezing sound turned out to be Sherlock, laughing himself stupid. Mary grinned at him, ignored Anderson, and sauntered over to where the consulting detective was leaning against a brick wall, wiping mirthful tears from his eyes.

“Literal bollocking, eh?” Sherlock asked, with glint in his eye.

“Sometimes it’s the best strategy. Let me look at that face of yours.”

Lestrade, overhearing, interrupted. “Drink him in some other time, Dr Morstan, I need an explanation.”

Mary sighed with severe irritation. “I’m not gazing at his bloody cheekbones, Detective Inspector, I’m professionally assessing his injuries, since he just got punched in the face by a killer with hands made out of sides of beef, by the look of it.”

Sherlock obediently tilted his face, allowing Mary to run her fingers over the bone and tissue. At the same time, he glared at Lestrade. “You mean you haven’t worked it out?” he demanded, then scowled when Mary told him to hold still.

“Of course I haven’t worked it out,” said Lestrade, with that irritated patience so prominent in his exchanges with Sherlock, “You bugger off from a crime scene, saying something about poison and allergies, then you text with your GPS location in what I can only describe as one of the least salubrious areas of a very nasty part of London, only to find you…” Lestrade, words failing him, gestured at the general what-the-hellness of it all.

Mary, determining that Sherlock’s face would survive, stood aside to allow Sherlock to explain, happy for the opportunity to catch up on the details at the same time.

The dead man from this morning’s crime scene had died from a severe allergic reaction to peanut oil, forcibly administered. The scented oil on his wrist clearly came from a counterfeit perfuming operation – Mary had identified that almost immediately, such an acute sense of smell, quite remarkable, very handy, yes, all right, I’m getting on with it. Yesterday’s dead man had died from a severe reaction to being stabbed in the heart (also forcibly administered). They represented two of the three killers for hire uncovered an hour ago in the warehouse of the counterfeit perfume business (and a third body was there, woman, sixties, divorced, lives alone, two cats, well all right – stabbed like her colleague, of course they called it in, where did Lestrade think the text was from, well, if you found her why did you ask?). Peanut in the Alley had been the mastermind, his own condition the inspiration for the death-by-allergy operation. The perp now being led away in handcuffs (and asking for a doctor, **_no not that one!_** ) had used their services, had been unhappy with the non-fatal result, and was in the process of extracting his own form of refund.

And that was, more or less, that. Lestrade wanted to make Sherlock go to the Yard to provide details; Mary put on her Doctor Voice and said that Sherlock needed medical attention and surely tomorrow was soon enough, and Lestrade sighed exactly like he did when the doctor making that argument called himself John.

“Fine. Good. Go. Tomorrow, Sherlock.”

Sherlock heaved himself away from the wall, wobbled slightly, and allowed Mary to grab his elbow. “Tomorrow,” he agreed.

Two streets away from the police, Sherlock’s persistent semi-stagger, which was beginning to alarm Mary, vanished completely. Sherlock made a little hop-skip, overtook Mary, then turned to speak with her while walking backwards.

“Paperwork is so tedious!” he declared.

Mary laughed. Sherlock grinned like a maniac at her, and they both dissolved into fits of giggles.

“Fighting suits you,” Sherlock stated.

“Really?” Mary’s eyebrows arched in a very John-like expression.

“Yes, really. Your colour is heightened. That isn’t so obvious in your male form, but your skin tone now is lighter and for some reason the make-up reveals rather than conceals the result. Your pulse rate is up, but your breathing isn’t shallow and panicky. It's more like you've been on a run around the park. And you’re smiling in a very self-satisfied manner.

“So are you.”

“Yes, well we know that I like this kind of thing.”

“You know that I like this kind of thing, too. You’ve known it from day one.”

“So I have.” Sherlock nodded, skipped around to walk in the conventional manner again and, emerging onto a high street, flagged a taxi.


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson IS Mary Morstan; Mary feels like dancing; turns out Sherlock can dance but only to prove a point; Mary has an erratic cycle; Sherlock makes an incorrect deduction about John's jumpers.

Mary slid down against the leather of the cab seat and stuck her feet up against the seat in front of her, examining her sneakers. Her toes jittered about of their own accord. She hummed a little, letting her toes tap.

Sherlock, she was amused to see, was puzzled.

“You’re not agitated,” he said.

“No,” she agreed. Her toes jittered about some more; she splayed her feet, toes out, toes in, pressed onto the balls of her feet, tapped them against the seat. Any minute now, the cabbie was going to tick her off.

 

“Pent up energy,” Sherlock commented after a moment.

“I got away with it," she said, eyes sparking, "They didn't spring me. Nobody..." She drew a breath on what she had expected them to do, had they realised who she was, "Anyway. I feel... a bit giddy, I suppose. Plus, that goon didn’t put up much of a fight,” Mary replied, then looked up at Sherlock, “Except against your face. Doesn’t look too bad. There’ll be bruising tomorrow.”

Sherlock prodded his jaw with his index finger. “Yes.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mary with a grin, “You’ll still be pretty.” Her grinned widened at the stern look Sherlock gave her, and they both laughed.

“You’re not agitated, you have energy to burn. Would you like to get out and run, then?”

“Nope,” said Mary, “I think I’d quite like to go dancing.”

Sherlock frowned at Mary’s shifting toes. “Dancing.”

“Yes, dancing.”

“You don’t normally go dancing after a case.”

“Normally, I’ve run myself ragged across the streets and rooftops of London, been in a fistfight or two, hauled your arse out of a fire and tried for fifteen minutes not to smack you in the back of a head for being a dick, which can really take it out of me.” She grinned again. “When I’m on… breaks, during my cycle, I go dancing quite a bit. Lots of nervous energy. No-one to chase across London.”

“Any particular nightclubs?”

“Not nightlcubs, god no, not for a decade. There’s a place where they do ballroom dancing. Salsa. Swing. That sort of thing. It’s fun.”

Sherlock looked extremely doubtful at this use of the word ‘fun’.

“You might like it,” Mary said, her feet stilling for a moment, “Ballroom dancing has structure. Defined moves and places. That sort of thing. You probably can’t dance though.”

“Of course I can dance.”

“Because you can do anything?”

“Because Mycroft and I took lessons. We had to practise together.”

Mary snorted inelegantly at that mental picture. “Who used to lead?”

“I did.” At Mary’s sceptical look, Sherlock shrugged, “Sometimes. We used to fight about that.”

“I bet.”

“It was supposed to be for a school dance. I ended up not going. As I recall, I was grounded for blowing up the scullery with an experiment I forgot to move.”

“How about you show me your moves?” Mary shoved herself back upright in the seat, “Come dancing with me.”

Mary had to wonder at the odd look Sherlock was giving her. One eyebrow raised, his expression a combination of troubled and disapproving.

“Your being in female form,” said Sherlock stiffly, “Does not alter my views on relationships. I don’t… do those. I am…”

“Sherlock,” Mary interrupted with a grim glare, “You really need to get over yourself. The ratio of men to women at the dance hall is appallingly low. I need a dance partner. I’m sick of dancing with the other girls.”

“I don’t dance…”

“You mean you can’t. Unless Mycroft’s leading.”

“Nonsense.”

“Prove it.”

“Fine.”

“Good. But we need to dress properly first.”

Sherlock spread his hands, indicating that he thought he was perfectly well dressed for a spot of ballroom dancing.

“I am not going dancing in sneakers,” Mary said firmly, “It’ll take me ten minutes.”

Mary hadn’t taken more than an emergency bag to the hostel, so they swung by Baker Street where most of her clothes were stored in a suitcase kept locked and under the bed. It took more like thirty minutes, which annoyed Sherlock immensely, but he took the opportunity to change into fresh, even more elegant clothes.

He regarded Mary critically as she came down the stairs in a vivid blue dress that swirled around her shins. A little jacket over the short-sleeved bodice hid her scar, and contrasted pleasantly with her dancing shoes, strappy but solid of heel. She’d taken a moment to make up her face more carefully and zhuzh her hair a little. The result was charming, although Sherlock didn't say so.

Mrs Hudson caught them leaving, but Sherlock simply said, “Finishing a case, Mrs Hudson,” and swept on out.

At the dance hall, Mary spent the first few dances reminding Sherlock how to hold his elbows, his hands, his head. “Look up, that’s it, hold the frame. Just like Dirty Dancing. Never mind. I’ll explain later. Head up. Count. It’s just maths. I thought you said you’d done this before. Do you want me to lead? All right then. And…”

And off they went, into Paso Doble, merengue, salsa: all dances of energy and power. Sherlock found his feet quickly enough, and he and Mary flashed around the dance floor. Some of the other women tried to coax him away, but Sherlock wasn’t terribly interested in dancing with them. Mary suggested it would be polite. Sherlock insisted that it would be boring.

A waltz began. Mary tilted her head, considering whether it was now time to take a breather, when Sherlock took her hand, placed his other on her waist. “This one, I definitely know,” he said, “I practised with Mummy.”

And he led with his right foot and swept them around the room before she had a chance to protest. Well, not that she intended to. She’d always liked to waltz, whether at Officers’ functions as John or burning off nerves and loneliness on her weeks away.

Dancing with her best friend, not alone and not afraid of what would happen if she was found out, was, Mary thought, the best way to waltz, ever.

“We’ll get your things from the hostel,” Sherlock was saying as they swept across the room, “There’s no need for you to abandon Baker Street any more.”

“But Mrs Hudson…”

“We could tell her if you like, or not, as you wish. I told you. Say nothing. People will come up with their own conclusions. Who really cares what they are? It is extremely unlikely to be anything like the truth.”

“But…”

“And even if they did,” Sherlock continued (whirl, sweep, slide) “They would not dare try to take you. Which is, I know, what you are afraid of.”

“They thought it was over, the army,” Mary admitted, “After I got shot. I didn’t change, for months. They thought the shock had terminated the cycle. It wasn’t until… I met you. Turns out, it wasn’t just the limp that was psychosomatic.”

Sherlock nodded. “Now that I know, I can see that your irregular absences… five? New Zealand?”

“That was an actual holiday, with Sarah. But… it happened while I was there. I had to pretend to be contagiously sick for a few days. That was the first time.”

“And is why you broke up with her.”

“Actually, that really was more to do with the way our dates always used to end up as cases. But after that… yes, the cycle returned, but it’s much more erratic now. I used to be able to predict, or at least tell when it was coming. It’s become pretty unpredictable, now.”

“Is this why you wear those shapeless jumpers so often? So that if the change comes unexpectedly, you can hide your new figure until you have time to withdraw.”

“No, Sherlock, I really just like the jumpers.”

Sherlock made a humming noise like he couldn’t believe that was true, which made Mary laugh again. “I don’t care what you think of my fashion sense.”

“It’s considerably improved at the moment.”

“Thank you. Maybe.”

“You’ll be safe at Baker Street,” Sherlock said, returning to the original theme, “I know you are used to people ‘freaking out’. In the past, I imagine reactions have been extremely negative, perhaps sometimes violent, even in the army, as useful as they may have found you. As a result, you are extremely cautious, or I would have realised much sooner what was happening.”

Mary’s step faltered. Sherlock held her steady and turned again.

“You will be safe,” he said, “I give you my word. And…” Another set of swooping turns, “I will, if necessary, call on Mycroft. But mostly,” (dip, turn), “People won’t notice.”

“Because they’re idiots.”

“Yes.”

The waltz came to an end, and Mary’s dress swirled around her legs, swayed and settled. “All right then,” she said, “Home.”


	6. Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson IS Mary Morstan; Mrs Hudson is even more awesome than you know; Sherlock always misses something; but he decides he doesn't mind dancing and there will be a next time, if only to obliterate childhood memories.

Mary had the urge to tiptoe up the stairs when they got back to Baker Street, but it competed with her urge to just be herself. This was her home. She wanted to be able to claim it back, after having run from it with that unwelcome jitter of fear… was it only this morning?

Her jitters were almost gone. Sherlock, as he had done from the start, banished them with battle and adrenalin and with not being even remotely bothered by the things that bother other people. Mary’s whole life had been a study in courage, but Sherlock made her feel like that her approach to the world was perfectly normal. She had been at peace with her nature for a long time, but this was the first time ever, with someone else, that she wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop. Everyone, always, had their limit.

Sarah hadn’t left because of Sherlock. Sarah had coped with kidnapping and crime scenes and the manic flatmate. Her boyfriend’s halting confession of his nature, when it started to get serious, had been another matter. Mary knew that Sarah hadn’t quite understood the truth. Practically no-one did.

Sherlock ran lightly up the stairs, literally dancing up and down a few of the steps like Fred Astaire, making Mary laugh at the fancy footwork. She danced up and down a few of them herself, adding a little kick step as she reached him.

“Show off,” Sherlock observed.

“What I lack in height and swirly coats,” Mary said, “I gain in dainty feet and natural rhythm.”

Sherlock’s expression said ‘fair call’.

Mrs Hudson’s voice said “Oh, I used to go dancing, before my hip went on me.”

Mary took a sharp breath and Sherlock had to steady her arm before she slipped on the step. He raised an eyebrow at their landlady, standing at her downstairs door.

“You look lovely, Sherlock dear,” she said, smiling up at them, “And John, you do have dainty feet…”

Mary turned slowly to look at Mrs Hudson.

“Or do you prefer another name when you’re…” Mrs Hudson nodded at her, with a relaxed smile, “Looking so lovely.”

“I…”

“Did I tell ever tell you about my friends who suggested Sherlock could help me with my…. marital problems? He’d helped out their daughter Alison. Lovely girl. Lovely boy, too. Excellent guitarist, I’m told, though it’s all just noise to me, I’m afraid. Ali’s mother says the band is doing well in America.”

Mary blinked rapidly. Sherlock, she saw, was giving Mrs Hudson an odd, calculating look.

“I didn’t really tell Sherlock which of my friends passed on his name, of course,” said Mrs Hudson, “Ali’s a very private person. But I thought, after I saw you leave today,” this to Mary, “That I should say something to you. Let you know it’s all right.”

Mary swallowed and slowly uncurled the fist she had been holding tight against her diaphragm. She walked down the steps to Mrs Hudson, who reached out to pat Mary’s hand. “We get all sorts here, John, like I said.”

Mary nodded. Smiled tentatively. “Some people find it easier… to call me Mary… when I’m…”

“But you’re still you,” Mrs Hudson said, still patting her hand, “Whatever bits you’ve got, you’re you. What do you like to be called?”

“When I’m a woman,” said Mary, “I like Mary. I’m… a different aspect of me. A different name helps me express that.”

“Mary it is, then,” and Mrs Hudson beamed. She lifted a hand to pet Mary’s cheek, to rub an incipient tear away with her thumb. “If you ever need anything, let me know.”

“You’re not my housekeeper,” said Mary, hoping she wouldn’t cry, because crying seemed a singularly inappropriate response to such acceptance. More dancing, perhaps, but not crying. Or maybe… yes. A hug. A hug was very appropriate. The way Mrs Hudson gathered her up, she seemed to agree.

“Whatever you need, dear,” said Mrs Hudson, patting Mary’s back now, “Just let me know.”

“I thought it was the Bellingham’s who recommended me,” interrupted Sherlock with an irritated frown.

Mrs Hudson dabbed at her eyes as she and Mary released each other. “Oh, them too, dear. I know quite a lot of people. Well, I’m for bed. Goodnight bo… Sherlock, Mary.”

Mrs Hudson closed her door, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I always miss something. First you, then Mrs Hudson…”

“You can’t be perfect,” Mary laughed, dashing up the stairs to join him.

“Why not? Gives me something to aim for.”

And then they were back in the flat. Their flat. Home.

Mary flung herself on the sofa before Sherlock could claim it and yanked off her shoes. She wiggled her toes. Sherlock dropped down beside her, forcing her to budge up to the other end.

“Dancing,” said Sherlock, “Is less tedious than I expected.”

“Maybe it’s only dancing with Mycroft you found unbearable.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock darted a sly look at her, “You are certainly a better dancer than he is.”

Mary stretched out a leg and pointed her toe, feeling the muscles pull. “I am a fabulous dancer,” she allowed, “And you’re not so bad yourself.”

“Next time, you can show me that Argentinian thing they were doing at the end.”

“The Argentinian Tango? If you like.” She raised an eyebrow. “So there’ll be a next time, will there?”

“Certainly,” Sherlock asserted, “If only to continue obliterating childhood memories of Mycroft deliberately stepping on my feet.”

“I bet he does a mean ‘Singing in the Rain’ with that umbrella of his, though,” Mary giggled.

“I’d always thought of him more as Mary Poppins,” confessed Sherlock, and they both fell about laughing at the image.


	7. Part seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson IS Mary Morstan; Sherlock is envious of Mary's skills; Sherlock gets a make-over - for SCIENCE!; he gets sprung looking pretty and is vain about it; John is pretty happy with his life.

The next ten days were not much different to other days at Baker Street, except that the clinic was minus one doctor on leave and Mary caught up on the pile of medical journals. Sherlock was disgruntled with the quality of London crime, and therefore exquisitely disparaging of London criminals, Scotland Yard, the general populace and Mary – also par for the course.

Mary and Sherlock went dancing twice more, and by the last time she’d stopped having to take the lead in the more complicated dances. He was still rudely uninterested in dancing with other women. Mary was secretly relieved. She couldn’t imagine precisely how Sherlock would be even ruder to them while dancing with them, but she knew he’d manage it. Deduce them to their faces, probably. Sherlock failed signally to know when he ought to shut up, most of the time.

But the boredom set in, as it always did, and Sherlock, clad in pyjamas and dressing gown, was flinging himself about the apartment with gusty sighs that threatened a tantrum if a case didn’t present itself soon. Short of popping out for milk, bread and a spot of inventive sharp-shooting to plant a body or two, Mary knew she wasn’t going to fix the absence of cases.

Instead, she sat on the sofa, feet drawn up, watching Dancing With the Stars. She was dressed in loose track pants and sleeveless top. Cotton jammed between each of her toes kept the digits spread while the nail varnish dried. A subtle champagne colour, this time. It went with most of her shoes.

“You might like to watch this one,” she said to the detective sulking like a six year old in the arm chair, “It’s the Bachata. We haven’t learned that one. God, the celebrity partner is painful to watch. He’s going to break a hip. Not necessarily his own. You could do better than that on one viewing, and he’s had a week to practise.”

The appeal to Sherlock’s vanity worked to draw his attention to the television. “He broke that leg, as a teenager. His step is uneven.”

“Oh well, that explains it.”

“He also has appalling rhythm. And,” Sherlock frowned at the screen then at Mary’s painted feet, “His feet are not dainty. That stuff smells awful.”

“Says the man who experimented with rotting pork pies during the heat wave.”

“It was for a case.”

“It was for fun. You didn’t have any cases that week.”

Sherlock sighed and flopped down on the remaining half of the sofa.

“He can’t dance at all,” Sherlock noted, in the same voice he’d used to be disdainful of the London criminal classes, “Why are you doing that?”

Mary blew on her fingernails, to which she had applied the champagne-coloured polish. “The last lot chipped. I’m freshening up.”

“But why wear it at all?”

Mary considered. “When I’m this me, my hands are a little smaller and softer. I like my hands, but they seem a bit… vulnerable. When I paint the nails, they look… stronger.” She grimaced. “I don’t think I explained that right.”

“You never hold your hands like that usually,” Sherlock continued, “If you need to check your nails, usually you…” Sherlock demonstrated, holding his hand palm-upwards then curling his fingers forward, “Not…” he reversed his hand, holding it palm down and stretching his fingers out elegantly away from himself.

Mary looked at her own hand, spread in the latter fashion, then at Sherlock’s. “I curl them in when I’m checking under the nails,” she said, “I stretch them when I’m putting on polish. See, if I hold my hand to the light like this, I can see if I’ve put it on evenly.” She quirked a little grin at him. “I don’t use polish most of the time.”

Sherlock nodded, as though the information was just confirming a theory. Mary suspected that Sherlock had known the difference all along and was making small talk for some peculiar, personal reason.

“Who taught you to…” Sherlock nodded at the polish drying on her nails, “You apply it very evenly.”

“Just practise. And I have steady hands, you may remember.”

Sherlock nodded. “That may explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“Why mine don’t look… convincing.”

Mary rolled that sentence around her head a few times, but it didn’t help.

“I think I need more data for that one, Sherlock.”

“On some cases, I have found it necessary to dress as a woman. The polish never looks right. Too uneven. The make-up is often not quite right either. Too heavy, or the wrong colour. That can work for some purposes. Some women have no idea how to apply make-up to their advantage. But I would rather know how to do it correctly.”

Mary tried to make her expression serious. She tried very hard. “Well, if you don’t use make-up very often, you probably just lack the practise.”

“I have steady hands, a good colour sense and an excellent selection of good quality products.”

Naturally. “But you don’t have the daily routine of using everything, matching it to your outfit, your mood, the occasion…”

“You make it sound unnecessarily complicated.”

Mary smothered a laugh. “You asked why it didn’t look right. I bet that’s why.”

“You only use make up for… what…six to eight weeks of the year?”

“More or less. But it’s been six or eight weeks a year since I was 14, so I’ve learned a thing or two.” At Sherlock’s pout, Mary laughed. “I did see a professional make-up artist when I was in my 20s. I wanted to learn some tips, and properly applied make-up makes me look a lot less like my male self. Good camouflage, if I bumped into someone who knew me.”

“I need to know how to do that. Look less like me and more like an actual woman.”

“For cases.”

“Some cases, of course. Don’t try to be funny.”

“Sorry.” Mary bit the inside of her lip to keep the grin at bay. She had not yet had the hilarious pleasure of seeing Sherlock made up for a job. She rather wished she could see how he managed it.

Sherlock leapt off the sofa, and Mary watched as a new couple, much better co-ordinated, took to the dance floor on the television. Sherlock returned moments later with a box. When he flopped down beside her again, he opened it to reveal jars, compacts and boxes of eyeshadows, rouge, foundation, the lot. Most of it was high-end, with a smattering of goods with the Boots label, perhaps for more middle-class role-playing.

“Show me,” he demanded.

“My nails are still drying.”

“You can do them again if you need to. Show me how to do it. Your own make-up is always impeccable.”

Mary took the compliment as the statement of fact it was and started poking around the box. “Most of these foundations aren’t right for you. Too dark. You need something light. Ah, this one’s close enough. We can go shopping for something a bit more suitable later, if you’re serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

“Fabulous. We can go get you some proper foundation garments at the same time.”

“I have those.”

“Of course you do.” Mary’s command of the not-smiling cracked under the raised eyebrow Sherlock gave her, and they both laughed. “All right. These colours are good for you, those others, not so much. Depends on what you’re wearing, and the effect you want to achieve. I’d go for those brighter ones if you want to be more… chav. But these ones will be better for a more natural, understated look.” Mary closed the box and laid out the selected items on top of it.

Foundation first. Mary talked Sherlock through getting the powder even, and extending the application down the throat and even a little lower, if the idea was to wear something lower cut, so that the result was even. “But don’t put on too much. You’re just trying to even out skin tone, not lay down the first coat like you’re painting a wall. You’ve got good skin, so you’ll never need a huge amount, and keep it light. You’re so pale, anything darker will just make it look like you’re wearing a mask.”

“Let me see.”

Mary flipped open the compact mirror and let Sherlock inspect the first step. He hmmed and sat still, waiting for step two.

“Your cheekbones are great for this. You just want to highlight them a little. Or you can de-emphasise them a bit, too. A bit of a challenge on you but… here, if you apply the blusher at this angle instead of in the hollow… it’s about light, I guess. You’re tricking eyes into seeing what you want them to see. You can subtly change how people see the shape of your face and your eyes, depending on how you create shadow and depth around them.”

“Like painting a canvas,” suggested Sherlock.

“A lot like it, yeah. Eyes next. Do you want to do the whole thing, mascara, eyeliner and all? Okay. You’ll have to hold still, and stop blinking, I’m not going to poke your eye out.”

“You’re used to doing your face, not mine.”

“I used to do Harry’s for her too. Now hold still. Close your eyes. I’m going to be very simple with this. You can do eyes with several different colours, you know. You can use darker shades strategically to make your eyes look bigger…”

“I do understand the principle, Mary.”

“Yes, but you say you’re still rubbish at it. Open your eyes wide now, for the eyeliner. Not much, just some subtle colour along the outside. Less is more and all that. And mascara. Your lashes are ridiculously long, Sherlock.”

Mary finished and Sherlock batted said eyelashes for a moment before grabbing the compact and examining his eyes critically

“Good.” He said, “Mouth next.”

Mary had to teach Sherlock how to hold and stretch his mouth properly for the lip liner, then the lipstick proper. “Why do blokes always pucker when they’re putting on lipstick. No, like this,” Mary demonstrated, and Sherlock mimicked. “That’s it. Now you pucker… while looking in the mirror, you’re checking that it’s even and that you’ve got the shape right. You can use the liner to make your mouth fuller or thinner. Your mouth’s a pretty good shape…”

“My upper lip is ridiculous.”

“No, your upper lip is fine, and actually, with a little colour it’s very… well. Yes. Here, take a look.”

Sherlock pouted into the compact mirror then, dissatisfied with the limited view, leapt up again to return with a larger hand-held mirror.

“You need to do something else with your hair,” said Mary, Maybe a wig, but nothing too fancy. The curls are good, but a little longer would suit you. Oh, and don’t forget to…” she jumped up to run her thumbs across his eyebrows, settling them in less unruly lines.

Mary stood back and folded her arms to assess her handiwork. She frowned.

“What?” Sherlock demanded, “Is it still wrong? I thought I looked sufficiently feminine, apart from the Adam’s apple, but I can wear a scarf over that. You’re annoyed. Why are you annoyed?”

“I’m annoyed, Sherlock, because I think you’re a prettier woman than I am.”

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “It’s probably just the cheekbones.”

Mary thought that the ‘ridiculous upper lip’ and the eyes highlighted so dramatically were also to blame, but that was all by the by.

“Now,” said Sherlock, “What about nails?”

So Mary painted Sherlock’s nails – each one a different colour, because Sherlock was curious about the different properties of different brands – while the dancing show played on, and they paused to critique the relative merits of the couples. Mary then decided that she ought to paint Sherlock’s toes as well, without bothering to come up with a plausible reason. She really just wanted to see if Sherlock would let her, and he was busy being scathing about a dancing soccer player who, Sherlock deduced, was having an affair with at least two of the other professional dancers, neither of whom had done anything for the soccer player’s woeful lack of style.

After that show, while the varnish was drying, Mary discovered one of the channels was screening Strictly Ballroom, and told Sherlock that watching it was clearly research. Then there was the show about unsolved 20th century murders, about which Sherlock was magnificently disdainful.

And somewhere along the line, the two of them fell asleep on the sofa, Sherlock stretched out with his feet in Mary’s lap.

What woke them up was Mrs Hudson’s voice, calling stridently up the stairs “Yes, he’s in Greg. Sherlock! Sherlock! The police are here to see you.”

John’s eyes flew open and the first thing he realised was that his chest was flat again. He’d morphed overnight.

The second, third and fourth things he realised in rapid succession were that people were heading up the stairs, that he was still wearing nail polish, and that Sherlock was still made up like a particularly lovely woman.

Sherlock was regarding him with fetchingly painted eyes. “The key, John,” he said sternly, “Is to offer no explanations. People will draw whatever conclusions they will, and it will almost never be the truth.”

“Great advice, as long as you’re not bothered by the conclusions they draw,” John pointed out.

“Why would I be?”

“No reason.” John grinned. He shoved Sherlock’s feet off his lap, bent to jam his feet, with their champagne-coloured toes, into his slippers and stood up to stick his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit pants. He was an old hand at this.

Lestrade strode into the room, the inevitable Donovan at his heels, and froze, staring at Sherlock.

“Good morning Greg,” said John, with a curt nod of greeting, “Sergeant.”

“You’re back,” said Lestrade, apparently welcoming the distraction from Sherlock’s already distracting appearance.

“Evidently John is back,” said Sherlock impatiently, “Perhaps your next sentence could be less inane. Do you have a case for me?”

Behind Lestrade, Donovan was not even bothering to smother a snort of hilarity. She had fetched her phone and appeared to be filming over Lestrade’s shoulder. Sherlock scowled at her. Rather prettily, John thought, suppressing the urge to giggle. Then he saw that Donovan’s camera had shifted to film him. He remembered he was in a tank top, his scar, usually never on display, revealed. He scowled at Donovan in turn. She faltered and turned the camera off.

“You look like you might already be on a case,” said Lestrade diplomatically.

Sherlock, who had risen to his feet, waved a hand dismissively and snapped his dressing gown firmly around his person. “Research,” he said, “Quite productive.”

“I’ll bet,” muttered Donovan.

“I’m reliably informed,” said Sherlock pointedly, “That I make rather an attractive woman.”

“From the neck up, anyway,” muttered John.

Lestrade forestalled any further discussion on the subject by assiduously ignoring Sherlock’s pretty eyes and addressing his description of the crime scene to the top of Sherlock’s head.

“Fine. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Does this mean you’re cleaning your face up before you come?”

“No,” said Sherlock acerbically, “It means I need time to choose which dress to wear. What do you think will go with a locked room homicide? Pink seems a bit cheery.”

“Red always goes with a crime scene,” Lestrade deadpanned back at him, “But then you’d need to brighten up your nail polish to match.” He rolled his eyes at John in a ‘how do you put up with this?’ way and swept out, calling behind him, “Twenty minutes, Sherlock, I’m not going to hold the scene longer than that for you.”

Sherlock hurtled into the bathroom to wash his face. John quickly cleaned the polish from his fingernails, figuring his toes didn’t matter, since they’d be in shoes now. He dressed and met Sherlock at the top of the stairs as the taller man appeared, coat swirling.

“You’re still wearing nail polish,” John noted.

“Yes. Doesn’t matter. No time to waste.”

Sherlock dashed down the stairs, John at his heels. Mrs Hudson grinned and waved at them as they left.

And this, thought John as he waved back then ran behind Sherlock for the cab, _this_ is the perfect life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find a picture of prettily made-up Benedict Cumberbatch at my LJ, along with a photoshopped pic of Martin Freeman in a dress, looking nothing at all like Mary.  
> http://221b-hound.livejournal.com/6760.html

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write John as someone who was completely comfortable with both of his gender expressions, and maintained continuity of personality even though some aspects may express themselves a little differently in his female form. Basically, I wanted to write a badass female character who was like John Watson. So, here's John Watson, feminine but not effeminate per se, who likes make-up, dancing and wearing pretty things, but who Will Not Put Up With Your Shit.
> 
> The fic title comes from the idea that John-as-Mary is the same person; there is nothing contrary about the two expressions of her personality.
> 
> John as Mary Morstan is still epic best friends but not lovebuddies with Sherlock. Not even when they're having a Girl's Night In. And she Does Not Put Up With His Shit either.


End file.
